Stormchasers
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: An amateur tornado chaser bites off more than he can chew. Follows 'Be Careful What You Wish For'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Here's a story I'd wanted to write for some time because of my own intense interest in tornadoes. At the end I make another reference to the episode "The Chateau/White Lightning". If you haven't read_ Be Careful What You Wish For, _which precedes this story, check under my profile; I had trouble posting it, and when I finally got it online, it appeared only there and not under the_ Fantasy Island _category. Once you have, I hope you will then enjoy this story. Special thanks as always to Harry2 and Terry L. Gardner!_

* * *

§ § § -- March 16, 1996

"…_and now the weather for Coral Island and Fantasy Island. Plenty of sunshine is expected, and the high temperature will top out at 88 degrees for Coral Island and 86 for Fantasy Island, with low humidity. A rogue thunderstorm may sweep across Coral Island on Sunday, but Fantasy Island should be clear throughout the weekend, with the next chance of rain possible late Monday night. Stay tuned to Radio Amberville, broadcasting from the largest town on beautiful Fantasy Island, for further news and weather updates…"_

Leslie shut off the radio alarm and sat up in bed, satisfied with the forecast. She had just crossed the room to open the window when Roarke's voice said pleasantly, "Well, good morning, Leslie. Are you ready for another weekend?"

"Of course," she said, turning to smile at him. "According to the forecast, the weather should be just as perfect as always."

Roarke got an odd look about him; it wouldn't have been readily noticeable to most, but Leslie had lived with him too long and knew him too well for it to be lost on her. "Perhaps you should keep a careful eye on the sky nevertheless, my child," he said. "You never know what may come up, and you should be prepared for anything."

Leslie wanted to laugh, but something in his tone of voice kept her silent. She was still trying to gauge his odd new mood when he suddenly shook it off and smiled at her. "I will meet you on the veranda for breakfast," he said. "Don't hurry, there is plenty of time."

"Okay, Father, see you there," she said and stared at the empty doorway for some moments after he had left, wondering what lay in store. She sighed, decided there was no point in fretting about it, and went to the closet for her weekend attire.

Two hours later they stood at the plane dock watching a fairly large group of guests disembarking. "Is this some sort of joint fantasy?" Leslie asked.

"After a fashion," Roarke told her. "Six of the seven individuals you see before you are from various countries around the world; they make up a very unusual tour group. The tour leader is the young man in front, wearing the denim vest with all the patches. His name is Wayne Blanchard, and he hails from Enid, Oklahoma." Roarke hesitated, making Leslie turn to him curiously, and then returned her gaze with some intensity. "Tell me, Leslie, how much do you know about tornadoes?"

"Tornadoes?" she echoed in surprise. "Well, I guess I know about as much as the average person would know. I mean, most people have seen at least photos and footage of them, and I know that certain areas of the U.S. are especially vulnerable to them. But I never saw the need to study them to any real extent, since I never lived in a tornado-prone state. Why do you ask?"

"That is the type of tour Mr. Blanchard leads," Roarke said. "I presume you have heard of 'tornado chasing'. A number of people have set up vacation packages that revolve around chasing, so that the layman with an interest in tornadoes can experience the thrill of pursuing such storms."

Leslie gave Wayne Blanchard a once-over; he was a lanky young man, perhaps her own age or a little younger, with dark hair and good looks. "Okay, I'm with you so far. Is that one of his groups?"

"Yes," said Roarke. "However, this may well be Mr. Blanchard's last tour. He has been leading groups of tornado enthusiasts on chase tours throughout tornado season for the last three years, and in all that time, he has spotted not one tornado. Therefore, his fantasy is for him and his tour group to finally catch one of the elusive storms he has been pursuing for so long."

"On Fantasy Island?" Leslie asked, amazed. "But the forecast said—"

"Don't you know that weather forecasts are said to be wrong at least fifty percent of the time?" Roarke countered, his dark eyes twinkling, and she grinned in response before his countenance sobered and he directed a concerned gaze in the direction of the awed band of storm chasers. "Unfortunately, I am not at all convinced that even Mr. Blanchard, who purports to be a professional, has any real idea what he's getting into."

Leslie frowned. "That doesn't make any sense. He's from Oklahoma, isn't he?—and after all, that's supposed to be one of the most tornado-prone states in the U.S."

Roarke merely watched Wayne Blanchard in silence for a moment before a native girl brought his drink and he immediately switched gears, raising the glass and welcoming their newest guests. A small fluttering tickled Leslie's stomach and she strove to keep her budding apprehension out of her smile of greeting.

‡ ‡ ‡

They greeted the full crowd of seven in the main house about an hour later. Wayne Blanchard looked excited, filled with contagious anticipation that had communicated itself to all six of his tour-group members. He let them introduce themselves: Enzo DiSandro, an Italian with a killer grin and an utterly transparent devil-may-care nature; Hannelore Niemeyer, from Germany, a tall athletic-looking young woman with honey-blonde hair cut close to her head and inquisitive green eyes; Jiro Tamori, a handsome Japanese college student; Joachim Albarran, who spoke with Roarke momentarily in Spanish while the two compared places they'd seen in Spain; Sangeeta Madichetty, an unusually adventurous and independent woman from northern India; and finally, to Leslie's complete astonishment, Simon Lightwood-Wynton from England. His presence jolted to life the memory of his trying visit the summer she was seventeen, when his mother had brought him to the island and she had been forced to be what amounted to a combination of tour guide, cruise director, babysitter and prison warden to him while Mrs. Lightwood-Wynton had a very elaborate fantasy fulfilled. Simon seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him.

Roarke recognized him as well. "Welcome back, Mr. Lightwood-Wynton," he said, extending a hand. Simon shook it, still looking a bit amazed. "How is your mother?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Roarke." He glanced at Leslie. "So your ward still works for you, then?"

"My daughter," Roarke amended with a smile, "and yes, she has been my assistant for the last five and a half years." He took in the entire group. "I am sure you'd all prefer to freshen up after your long journey; we have bungalows available for each of you. Although… Mr. Blanchard, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with you for a few moments."

"I'll show the others to the bungalows, Father," Leslie offered.

"Thank you, Leslie," Roarke said and smiled at her, waiting till she and the multinational tour group had left the house before turning his attention to Wayne Blanchard. "If you would please have a seat…and if you would indulge me as to why you wish this fantasy to be made reality?"

Blanchard watched Roarke sit down himself before leaning forward. "Mr. Roarke, I grew up in Oklahoma, and I've always been interested in tornadoes. I admit, my profession is kinda weird, but it's new yet, and there's actually plenty of demand for it. There's good money in it because so many people are interested in these things." He sighed deeply. "See, the problem is, even in the deepest reaches of Tornado Alley, it's possible to get through a lifetime without ever seeing one."

"Indeed," Roarke said, eyeing the man knowingly, "and you would like very much to remove yourself from the ranks of those who haven't, would you not?"

Blanchard went very still; his face flushed. "How'd you know that?" he asked, breaking eye contact even as he said it.

"What's more," Roarke continued as though Blanchard hadn't spoken, "you are actually ashamed that you have never experienced a tornado."

Blanchard sighed loudly in defeat and stared pleadingly at Roarke. "The tour group doesn't know," he said. "I can't tell them that. They'd accuse me of incompetence and want their money back. Look, Mr. Roarke, just because I've never actually seen a real tornado, that doesn't mean I don't know what to do in the event of one. I know how to chase safely and I know all the procedures for protecting yourself from a tornado. These people are all safe with me, I guarantee it. But they paid me good money to see a twister, and I want to make sure they do. The only way I could do that was to come here."

"I have no doubt that you believe you have prepared yourself adequately for the eventuality, and it's plain to me that your enthusiasm is boundless. But that doesn't make up for the lack of experience, Mr. Blanchard—the true experience of someone who has survived an actual tornado. I don't believe that you have the full scope of knowledge necessary in such situations." Now it was Roarke who leaned forward, his stare penetrating, causing Blanchard to look away again in consternation. "You can't know what your reaction will be when the storm is bearing down on you and you are facing its fury in reality, rather than in theory. Nor can you know the reactions of your charges."

"I've listened to enough survivor stories to get a good idea," Blanchard protested.

"Even that is merely secondhand," Roarke said. "The incontrovertible fact remains that you have never seen, let alone survived the passage of, a tornado, and that all of your preparations have been made under the false security of certainty born of lack of practical experience. I find this dangerous in the extreme, Mr. Blanchard, and I implore you to reconsider your fantasy."

"I can't, Mr. Roarke," Blanchard said, his tone icing over. "I told those six people that they'd see a tornado once I brought them here. They came here in good faith, because they know the reputation you and your island have, and they're not gonna be happy to find they've wasted a lot of money on an empty promise. There's nothing you can say that'll get me to change my mind—period. They paid me, and I paid you, and I won't take no for an answer. So you better give up and grant the fantasy."

Roarke tried one more time. "And should something happen to one of those people in your care, where would that leave you—and me as well? Have you considered that tornadoes are among the most unpredictable forces in nature? That all your meticulous plans and preparations could go for naught if the storm does something you never thought to anticipate? Think about it, Mr. Blanchard, think very carefully. Sit there for a moment and give some real thought to the very great possibility that someone will be injured, perhaps even killed, in the course of this fantasy."

Blanchard scowled. "If it's a fantasy, Mr. Roarke, and if you're granting it, there's no reason to worry about that, because a fantasy's supposed to be the way you want it."

Roarke settled back in his chair and began to laugh softly, without humor. "I see I must explain what I have found it necessary to explain to so many others before you. I may have the power to grant a fantasy—but once it has begun, I have no power to either control it or stop it. If you take that tour group into your fantasy, there will be no going back. You should also be aware that I have no control over the forces of weather; so, should you in fact encounter a tornado, the storm will be what Mother Nature makes of it—not I."

Blanchard shrugged. "It would've been the same way if I'd encountered it in Oklahoma, Mr. Roarke. So that shoots down your last argument. The only difference is that with you involved, our seeing a tornado is guaranteed."

After a silence, Roarke said, "I can refuse your fantasy on principle."

"Yeah? Have you ever done that before?" Blanchard demanded.

"Rarely, but yes," Roarke said. "I would have grounds in this case, because you are endangering the lives of others, not just your own."

"They know the risks, Mr. Roarke," Blanchard said tightly, "and they elected to take those risks. In fact, they _paid_ for those risks. And since they did, I have to deliver. I in turn paid for this risk, and that obligates you to deliver." He misread Roarke's narrow-eyed stare. "If you think I'm gonna sue you, rest easy. I know the risks and the possibilities, and I'm fully aware that you've tried to change my mind."

Roarke shook his head. "You misunderstand me, Mr. Blanchard. I merely wonder precisely how aware your clients really are of these risks. How much do they truly know about tornadoes? I hope you will have no objection if I speak with them."

"If you have to, then go ahead, but you won't change their minds either," Blanchard told him. "Like I said, they know and paid for the risks, and they'll be as determined to go through with it as I am. You might as well save yourself the trouble."

"I might," Roarke agreed with a thin smile, "but I choose not to." He cleared his throat and stood, his expression warming somewhat. "You might wish to freshen up while I'm speaking with your tour group. I will drive you to a bungalow. Shall we all meet back at the main house at eleven-thirty?"

"Sounds good to me," Blanchard said, rising. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- March 16, 1996

Conveniently, Roarke found the tour group standing in front of the bungalow that had been set aside for the two women, all of them chatting with Leslie except for Simon Lightwood-Wynton, who held himself somewhat apart from the rest. Roarke remembered his mother Catherine's fantasy from the summer of 1982, and he had been aware at the time that Leslie and Simon didn't get along; but Leslie had never let him in on most of what had happened while she was assigned as Simon's "keeper". Perhaps, he thought, he'd indulge his curiosity at a more opportune moment. He parked the station wagon in front of the bungalow and returned everyone's greetings.

"What a lovely island, Mr. Roarke," said Sangeeta Madichetty with enthusiasm. "I always heard the stories, but I never thought I would see it."

"Thank you, Ms. Madichetty," Roarke replied with a warm smile. "Have all of you had a chance to settle in?"

He was greeted with a chorus of affirmative replies and nodding heads. Simon Lightwood-Wynton spoke up: "Mr. Roarke, I had a question…did my parents sell the mansion they once owned here?"

"Yes, several years ago," Roarke said. "I seem to recall your mother once mentioning the possibility of returning yearly, but…"

Simon shrugged. "We never got around to it. It's just too much of a distance, and Mum wasn't willing to endure such long flights. At any rate, it's good to be back again." Roarke caught Leslie's astonished expression, which heightened his curiosity all the more, but he controlled it and kept his attention on their guests.

"Perhaps you good people would permit me an indulgence," Roarke suggested with another smile. "I have spoken at some length with Mr. Blanchard, and he is quite adamant about carrying out his fantasy. Tell me, have any of you considered the incredible danger you'll be facing? A tornado is not something to be trifled with."

"We are aware of that, _señor,"_ said Joachim Albarran. "But it is our understanding that tornadoes are a very real part of American life, and that the danger of encountering one in the States is much higher than in any other country on earth. Nonetheless, last year I read of a tornado near the town where I was born and raised, and I am determined to educate as many of my students as possible. This is part of my preparation for my secondary-school science classes, you see."

"Ah," said Roarke. "Ms. Niemeyer?"

"It seemed quite exciting," Hannelore Niemeyer said and smiled a little sheepishly. "I will admit, the idea of such a storm frightens me, but there's an element of excitement as well. I believe in having a healthy respect for these American storms."

"I as well," Jiro Tamori said, and Enzo DiSandro nodded tacitly.

"I must prove to my parents that I can survive on my own," Sangeeta Madichetty said with a steely resolve in her soft voice. "I have a college education and I am well qualified to hold down a good job; but my parents want to commit me to an arranged marriage and a secluded life. The very thought is anathema to me. I'm sure that choosing the experience of surviving a tornado sounds rather extreme to you, Mr. Roarke, but as a matter of fact, I once saw one at a distance from my home. It was a truly awe-inspiring sight, even though it frightened me as well. I was a child then, and from that day forward I learned everything I could possibly find about tornadoes."

"As for you, Mr. Lightwood-Wynton?" Roarke prompted.

Simon flicked a glance at Leslie, whose expression was studiedly neutral. "I'm not quite through with chasing thrills yet, I fear, Mr. Roarke. At any rate, I've always found America to be a particularly primitive and rather savage place, and I see tornadoes as the embodiment of that primitiveness and savagery. It's merely my wish to watch one chewing up the countryside." He smiled coolly and trained his gaze on Leslie again, as if mocking her. Leslie, Roarke noticed, was eyeing the ceiling and maintaining her neutral face only with noticeable effort. Again he wondered how often she and Simon Lightwood-Wynton had been at odds that summer fourteen years before.

"So I can say nothing to dissuade any of you from participating in Mr. Blanchard's fantasy?" Roarke asked.

"Not a word," Jiro Tamori said with an apologetic smile. "We all know exactly what lies in store for us, and we're all willing to face it."

"We understand that Wayne Blanchard is one of the most informed operators in the field of tornado-chasing tours," Joachim Albarran added. "I have no doubt we're in good hands under his leadership."

"Yes, he seems quite competent…for an American," said Simon Lightwood-Wynton.

In the face of their quiet determination, Roarke gave in. "Very well," he said and nodded. "In that case, you shall all have your joint fantasy." He took out his gold watch and noted the time. "There are nearly two hours before you and Mr. Blanchard are to meet us back at the main house, so you shall all have time for a good meal and some relaxation before then. Please, enjoy yourselves, and make liberal use of all the amenities."

The tour group thanked him, and Leslie followed him off the porch of the bungalow and to the car. "So you've been trying to discourage them all," she remarked, more to herself than to him. "Seems sensible enough to me. I just wish they'd listened."

"I have found over the years that human beings frequently find it necessary to learn things the hard way," said Roarke with a rueful smile. "Yes, despite my misgivings and my objections, I will be granting this fantasy." He regarded her thoughtfully across the top of the car. "I find it interesting that Miss Madichetty actually has more experience with tornadoes than does Mr. Blanchard."

Leslie stared at him. "Are you saying that Wayne Blanchard has never seen one?"

"Unfortunately, yes—but he is, if anything, the most stubborn and determined of them all." Roarke slipped into the car and Leslie followed suit, but he continued to watch her for a moment without turning the key. "Leslie, tell me…precisely what went on between you and Simon Lightwood-Wynton the summer he came here with his mother?"

She caught her breath in surprise and stared at him, turning pink. "I thought you knew he and I didn't get along at all. Don't tell me you forgot the way he wanted us to shut down the entire amusement park solely for his benefit, and how he pushed you for ten minutes over the phone from the mansion trying to make you accede to his wishes."

"No, I haven't forgotten," Roarke said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "but I might remind you that I had very little contact with him otherwise. And you never did explain to me just why it was that you and he didn't get along."

Leslie looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "He was a spoiled-brat rich kid who thought that his money meant he should get anything he wanted. And he treated me like dirt the whole time he was here."

"Specify," Roarke suggested, finally starting the car.

"He acted as if I were his servant, that's all," Leslie muttered.

Roarke glanced at her. "Is that really all?"

She blew out an exasperated breath. "Father, why are you asking me now?"

Roarke laughed softly. "Primarily because I sense a certain amount of that same mutually-hostile attitude lingering between the two of you, and I have begun to think that there is more to your story than you're telling." He patted her shoulder at sight of her pained look. "All right, we'll drop the subject for the moment. If you'll check with Mariki about lunch, you may have the intervening time free until Mr. Blanchard and his group return."

At eleven-thirty precisely, the stormchaser group gathered in the main house, just as Leslie came down from upstairs where she had been holed up for most of the time Roarke had allotted her. At first he didn't notice, involved as he was in greeting their guests and asking if they had been enjoying themselves. But then he looked around and stared at her: she was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a pink cotton shirt, and carried a small overnight bag. She met his quizzical look with a determined one of her own, and he gave up for the moment and addressed the entire group.

"There is an island approximately one hour from here by hydrofoil launch, a place known for its unusually inclement weather. There is one small town there, but primarily the island is given over to farmland. Its topography very closely resembles the terrain you would find in the American Plains states where tornadoes are most common. Leslie and I will take you there, and this is where your fantasy will begin. Are you ready?"

Heads nodded and a chorus of murmured assent rose. Roarke gestured toward the door and deliberately let their guests file out ahead of them, stepping around the desk and falling in beside Leslie. "Why are you dressed like that, Leslie, and carrying that bag?"

She drew in a fortifying breath; she'd known he would question her, and she had carefully rehearsed her explanations. "I'm going along with the group, Father."

Roarke's dark eyes widened in alarm. "You certainly are not, Leslie Susan! Whatever gave you the idea to do this?"

"I've always been afraid of thunderstorms, you know that," she said, trailing the group as she spoke but remaining far enough behind to keep their conversation relatively private. "I'm almost 31, Father, and I think it's time I learned to get over that fear. This seems like the only possible way I can do it."

"By accompanying a tornado-chasing excursion? That's overkill," Roarke protested.

She shrugged. "Well, that may be, but I spent my time upstairs watching a tape I got from the library in town. Among other things, I discovered that tornadoes are always born of especially violent thunderstorms. I figured that if I could face down a tornado and live through it, any thunderstorm I encounter after this should be a piece of cake." She answered Roarke's astonished look with a slightly sheepish grin. "Yeah, okay, so it's overkill. But I think it's also going to be pretty effective. And you yourself have said a few times that we ought to find a way of addressing my thunderstorm phobia. This seemed like a golden opportunity to me."

"Leslie, I put a great deal of effort into emphasizing to Mr. Blanchard just how perilous this undertaking is, and I am granting his fantasy only under duress. Do you truly believe that I would willingly and blithely sanction the desire of my only child to join this foray?" Roarke and Leslie stopped at the top of the porch steps and faced each other, he alarmed, she nervous but adamant. He read her expression and began to shake his head. "I suppose I am about to face the same resistance from you that I did from our guests."

She nodded. "I'm sorry, Father, but I really think this is something I have to do. Believe me, I'm not going to deliberately and recklessly put myself in danger. If I have any questions, those in the know can tell me what I need to find out. I'm not going into this with blinders on, Father, I promise. But I _am_ going to do it, no matter what, so you might as well let me go." She glanced into the lane, where Blanchard and the others waited, watching them with increasing puzzlement. "We really should get going before we're faced with a riot," she concluded, grinning.

Roarke sighed heavily. "Young lady, you're simply too stubborn for your own good," he said, but she saw the glimmer in his eye that told her he had given in and was teasing her. "Very well, I'll allow this—with great reluctance, mind you, but I'll allow it. Please, my child, be safe." This he said with quiet urgency, and she smiled, tipping swiftly forward to kiss his cheek.

"I'll do my best, Father," she promised. "Come on, let's go."

They descended the steps and joined their guests, and between them all they took a caravan of three jeeps to the marina where a new dock had been constructed over the winter and hydrofoil service to select islands had been instated. In fact, the operation was the brainchild of Leslie's friend Lauren's husband Brian Knight, whose expertise with boats had stood him in excellent stead when he decided to sell his lucrative charter-fishing business and take on something entirely new. Brian himself captained the launch, with Lauren as his business partner and often his first mate, as she was today. Roarke gave Brian the name of their destination, and he nodded agreement and prepared to depart.

Lauren approached them and greeted Leslie and Roarke. "Off on an overnighter?" she asked Leslie.

"Of sorts," Leslie said evasively. "It's part of a fantasy, actually."

"Aha." Lauren nodded sagely. Like Leslie's other friends, she knew when to stop asking questions once she discovered something was involved in the fantasy-granting business. "Well, then, good luck. Mr. Roarke, we had word that some bad weather's on its way in, so this is going to be our only run for the day."

"I understand," Roarke said. "Thank you, Lauren." He cast Leslie an unreadable look and went to find a seat. She sighed tolerantly and followed him, choosing a window seat.

The ride to the island passed mostly in silence, except for Simon Lightwood-Wynton holding a discussion with Brian about something the others couldn't hear. There was an air of solemnity about the rest of the group, putting Simon's casual air at odds with the general mood. As the trip progressed, the sky became overcast and gradually darker, holding Leslie's constant attention as she tried to gauge what the massing clouds might hold in store.

At last they docked at the tiny marina of a fairly good-sized island. One by one the passengers stepped out onto the dock and filed onto dry land. They stood on what appeared to be the main drag of a burg only a few blocks square; beyond the town limits, rolling farmland spread out to the horizon, where the peaks of a low mountain range poked at the undersides of the lowering clouds. Roarke caught up with them and indicated the street.

"This is Cedar Heights," he told them, "settled several decades ago by the descendants of families originally displaced by the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. The inhabitants experience frequent intense storms, and tornadoes are not unknown here. It's my understanding that this weekend is expected to be particularly inclement." He fixed Wayne Blanchard with a long look. "My daughter will be with you throughout the weekend, and she will know how to get in touch with me should any questions arise in the course of your stay here. I caution you to take care of her, and indeed of all your charges, Mr. Blanchard."

Blanchard peered back at him, managing to look both surprised and insulted. "I always take good care of my tour groups, Mr. Roarke. But you didn't tell me…"

"It was her decision," Roarke said brusquely, thereby revealing his dire misgivings about leaving Leslie behind. "In any case, I must get back before the weather worsens. Good luck…and good chasing." With that, he strode away toward the launch, leaving Blanchard and his seven charges standing uncertainly on the sidewalk in a brisk breeze. Leslie stared after Roarke for a moment, wavering between her wish to rid herself of her phobia and her uneasiness over her chosen way of doing it; but before she could chicken out, the launch roared to life and began to pull away from the dock. _Well, that's that,_ she thought.

"Okay, folks," Blanchard called out, "let's find a place to crash for the night. After that we'll get a good local forecast and meet for supper, and ask some questions." He headed off toward a small hotel down the street, and the others trailed him, checking the sky with varying degrees of anxiety or, in Simon Lightwood-Wynton's case, scanning their surroundings. The breeze tossed the women's hair around and carried a faint rumble of thunder from the distant mountains.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- March 16, 1996

No sooner had Roarke settled behind the desk at the main house than the door flew open and in walked a young woman with a cap of shiny dark hair and snapping green eyes. She spied him immediately and stalked inside. "Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke arose. "Yes, may I help you?"

"I think you better. My name's Denise Young, and I'm Wayne Blanchard's fiancée." Denise Young paused in front of the desk, one hand on her hip, eyeing Roarke accusingly. "You just granted Wayne's ridiculous fantasy, didn't you?"

Roarke half-smiled. "Under duress, Ms. Young, I assure you."

She squinted at him, disarmed for a moment. "Excuse me?"

"Please sit down," Roarke invited, indicating the chair beside her. With a sigh she did so, and Roarke took his own seat as well. "Your fiancé is a determined man, Ms. Young. I spent considerable effort trying to deter him from his intentions, but he would have none of it. He insisted on going through with his…'ridiculous fantasy', as you put it, and all six members of his tour group were of the same mind." He hesitated, making Denise's gaze sharpen, and then added reluctantly, "My daughter insisted on accompanying them, for her own reasons, so she is with them and can get in touch with me if need be."

Denise gaped at him, shocked. "Good God, Mr. Roarke, you put your own daughter in danger too? Just what kind of man are you, anyway?" She rolled her eyes while he sat back, his expression frosting over. When he remained silent, she blew out her breath. "Well, since you did the damage, you might as well go all the way. Take me wherever you took Wayne and his group and your daughter."

"The weather conditions have deteriorated considerably since I accompanied Mr. Blanchard's party to the island where they will be conducting their chasing excursion," Roarke said with a distinctly chilly tone to his voice. "Our only hydrofoil launch has been docked for the remainder of the day, and it's unlikely you'll be able to find someone who will take you there."

"I'll find somebody," Denise said, "and if I can't, then you'll do it yourself, Mr. Roarke. After all, you're responsible for sending them into this folly in the first place. I have to get out there and talk Wayne out of this idiocy."

"I wish you luck, Ms. Young," said Roarke flatly. He stood up when she did, but otherwise did not move; and when she had left he settled down again and gave a quiet sigh of frustration. What Denise didn't understand, and what he had discovered through many years of fantasy-granting, was that sometimes, the only option available was to give the requestor what he or she wanted, and let them learn on their own exactly what they had put themselves in for. But that wasn't what bothered him so much as the fact that Leslie had jumped into this particular pressure cooker right along with all the rest.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie, Hannelore and Sangeeta had decided to share one hotel room to conserve costs; Blanchard and Joachim Albarran, who were more or less of an age, were sharing a second room, while Jiro Tamori and Enzo DiSandro had a third. Simon Lightwood-Wynton, of course, took a room for himself. He struck Leslie as no less insufferable now than he had been in 1982; but she was determined to keep a lid on her temper as she had been unable to do then. She figured if she could manage to stay as far away from him as was feasible, things should be all right.

The three women hadn't had much of a chance to get acquainted before Blanchard came around and gathered everyone for supper at a diner that had been recommended by the front-desk clerk. The breeze had picked up and the sky was still cloudy, but so far there had been no rain. The tour group chatted desultorily on the way to the diner; once there, they were all shown to booths, and sat studying menus for a few minutes.

The waitress who stopped beside the women's booth recognized Leslie. "Why, Leslie Hamilton, what brings you to Cedar Heights?"

Leslie stared at her for a moment before she placed the face, and her mouth fell open. "Holly Oberlein, is that you? When did you move here?"

"Right after we graduated," Holly said cheerfully. "I'll never forget all the help you used to give me in tenth- and eleventh-grade study halls. You really saved my butt in those English-lit classes. You still live on Fantasy Island with Mr. Roarke?"

"You got it," Leslie said, grinning. "In fact, I'm his assistant. Did you know I'm his daughter now, not just his ward? He formally adopted me as his graduation gift to me."

"That's great!" Holly exclaimed, beaming. "We should sit and chat awhile. My shift's over in half an hour. Do you think you can hang around here that long?"

"Don't see why not," said Leslie. "I'm here with a group for a fantasy, actually, and there are seven of us, so we may be here awhile."

Holly nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, good." She glanced at the interested smiles of Sangeeta and Hannelore. "What kind of group are you folks with?"

"We are here to chase a tornado," Hannelore said.

Holly seemed to freeze momentarily, and her pale-blue eyes grew wide with concern. "I suppose you know the reputation this island has," she said guardedly, biting her lip. "And we've been hearing weather warnings all day today. There's supposed to be some really nasty stuff on its way in."

"That's what our tour leader wants," Sangeeta said with a wry little smile, and that broke the tension enough for them all to laugh.

"Well, I hope you'll be as careful as possible," Holly said. "Are you ready to order?"

As the tour group ate, many of the other occupants of the diner gathered around to chat with them. Sangeeta peered at Leslie in surprise. "Mr. Roarke didn't mention how friendly the locals are."

"Well, they don't get many visitors," Leslie explained. "This island has gained quite a reputation as the magnet for the worst weather in this sector of the South Pacific. Nobody knows why, and most of the people who come here are meteorological scientists and forecasters and folks of that ilk."

"Right," said Holly Oberlein, joining them with a pitcher of tea with which she was making rounds of refills. "I have to admit, you folks are the first tornado chasers to come here. We seem to get three or four tornadoes every year, but we've been lucky—they're just little ones, and they usually stay out in farm country where they don't encounter many man-made structures. Those weather-freak types are always so gung-ho when they get here, all excited about cloud formations and jet-stream conditions and stuff like that. They throw around some pretty technical jargon; but they're the nearest thing we get to having tourists, and they do bring in plenty of cash."

Simon Lightwood-Wynton, having twisted around on a stool at the counter where he had sat apart from the group, snorted. "Little wonder, I daresay. What a bleak, benighted place this is. How can you stand to live here?"

Holly eyed him coolly. "It's home," she said simply and turned away from him.

"Mister, it isn't your call to question us," someone else remarked in icy tones, addressing Simon as well. "Mind you, if you don't like the conditions here, you're always free to leave…if you can find anyone who'll take you out in this weather." Right on cue, there was a growl of thunder, and everyone's attention was called to the windows. Rainwater streamed down them in rivers, and it was clear that it had been raining for some time.

"Then this is perfect," Wayne Blanchard announced excitedly. "It has to be a good sign. Anyone heard a local weather forecast lately?"

The gathered locals exchanged glances. "Supposed to be rain and thunderstorms all night," Holly finally ventured, "and I understand there's a very bad squall line heading this way. A whole enormous and well-organized weather system that just might give you that tornado you folks are looking for."

"Hallelujah," Blanchard exulted. "I told you Mr. Roarke'd come through. We're gonna see that twister yet! Thanks for the info, miss." He launched into excited conversation with Albarran, DiSandro and Tamori; both Sangeeta and Hannelore got up and moved over to get in on the chatter. Leslie watched them dubiously, then blinked when Holly scooted into the booth beside her.

"I thought you were scared of thunderstorms, Leslie," Holly said questioningly.

"I am," Leslie admitted quietly. "But I talked Father into letting me come here with the stormchasers. It's time I conquered that phobia."

Holly winced. "Oh dear. You really picked a lulu of a storm for doing the conquering, but I sure wish you luck." She smiled and squeezed Leslie's hand. "But it really is good to see you again, Leslie. I hope we get a chance to visit before you leave."

"Me too," Leslie agreed warmly. Before she could say any more, however, the bell over the entry door jangled and a young woman shouldered her way in out of the pouring rain, stopping just inside the door and peeling off her dripping raincoat. Two booths down, Wayne Blanchard shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

"Denise?" he blurted, sounding shocked.

The woman at the door looked around and zeroed in on him. "So there you are! Wayne, damn it, what's wrong with you?"

"How'd you get here?" Blanchard exclaimed.

"Just arrived by fishing boat," Denise Young told him, striding over to join the stormchasers and the townsfolk sitting nearby. "I talked to Mr. Roarke, and I have to say, I really question his judgment, agreeing to let you stroll right into a freaking tornado. Not only that, but to send his own daughter into one…"

Leslie stood up too. "Is there something we can do for you?" she asked. "I'm Leslie Hamilton, Mr. Roarke's daughter and assistant—and by the way, I made my own decision to come here."

Denise eyed her. "If that's true, then you're as dumb as all these amateur tornado nuts here. Ten to one you've never seen a twister, just like everybody else here."

"And you have, then?" interjected Simon from his counter stool.

"Several, buddy," Denise confirmed. "I doubt any of you has any real idea what you're trying to let yourselves in for."

"Then why is it you aren't leading this tour?" Simon challenged.

Denise glared at him. "Because I'm not fool enough to go running after twisters on purpose, that's why. Look, we have one chance to get out of here. I heard a weather report on the trawler I came here on, and the squall line that's approaching this island is getting bigger and gaining a lot of strength. It's supposed to have hurricane-force winds, heavy wind-driven rain and very dangerous lightning. Obviously you see the potential for tornadoes in this thing. You gotta come back _now."_

"We're not leaving, Denise," Blanchard informed her flatly. "I've told you again and again, this is my livelihood, and in spite of what you think, I know what I'm doing." He turned his attention to the group and Leslie. "How about we head back to the hotel and make out our itinerary for tomorrow. My chase van's in the parking lot there, thanks to Mr. Roarke, and we'll start out at sunrise tomorrow morning."

"Lady, you're stuck here too," said one of the locals to Denise. "That fishing trawler you came here on? That's my son's boat, and he's not going out again in this weather. For someone who's so worried about getting flattened by a tornado, you sure were in a hurry to get out here and join the fray."

"I didn't come here to chase, I came to get these people back to Fantasy Island," said Denise hotly.

"Well, it's too late," the man said and gestured out the window, where the stormy sky had darkened with the approach of night. A strong gust of wind rattled the windows. "My son isn't going back out in that. I gotta tell you, it's a miracle you even got him to bring you out here, because I told that damn-fool kid to stay at the Fantasy Island marina tonight."

Denise shrugged. "Well, I guess he wanted to get home, weather or no. And okay, so I'm stuck here too." She regarded Wayne and his group. "Maybe I can make you see some sense and keep you crazy people from trying to flag down a funnel cloud."

Simon slid off his barstool and sauntered toward the entrance. "Maybe we'll drag you along with us, since you're the expert on this sort of thing," he remarked with a sardonic little smile at Denise. "You're here and you obviously know everything, so you should make yourself useful." He pulled on a raincoat and left.

"What a jerk," Denise said, astonished. "Who _is_ that guy?"

"Nobody special," Leslie said with a wry smile of her own. "I think we should get back to the hotel while the getting's good." She turned to Holly while the tour group and Denise and Wayne began sorting out their raincoats. "You be safe, okay? Stay here in town and batten down the hatches, and you'll be one less person I have to worry about."

Holly grinned and squeezed Leslie's forearm in friendly fashion. "Don't worry, I've been through years of crazy weather here. I know what to do. You just be careful, Leslie, and make sure that tornado chaser brings you back to Mr. Roarke in one piece."

"I will," Leslie said, glancing out the window and taking a deep breath. "I'll make good and sure of it."

Back at the hotel, Denise Young accompanied Leslie, Sangeeta and Hannelore to their hotel room and surveyed the sleeping arrangements. "The three of you are crammed in here and that British snob has a room all to himself?"

"No one wants to share a room with him," Hannelore said and grinned. "This tour has lasted nearly two weeks, and we have learned in that time that he's a person to avoid at all costs. I think he comes from a very rich family and is heir to an enormous fortune."

"From several ancestors," Leslie put in, "if my information's right. One of said ancestors is the silent-film director Niles Cameron, according to him."

Sangeeta, Hannelore and Denise all looked at one another. "How do you know?" Denise asked.

"I've met him before," Leslie replied with a grimace. "Let's just say he and I didn't get along at all, and leave it at that." She reached over and turned on the television set, going through channels in search of a weather forecast. "I wonder if this island gets American cable TV. It's kind of far out from most of the others in this group."

"Looks like it does," Denise said as the picture brightened and focused on the screen. "Does it come out of Hawaii?"

Leslie nodded. "That way we get forecasts for South Pacific territories that the mainland doesn't usually get." She divided her attention between the conversation and changing channels in her search for the national US Weather Channel. "How many tornadoes have you seen, Denise?"

"Enough," Denise replied, scowling. "When I was ten, one of them totally destroyed our house. We lost absolutely everything. That's the kind of power tornadoes have, and it's impossible to know how it feels."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Leslie said with a shrug. "I've never seen a tornado myself, but I've had the experience of losing everything—twice, in house fires." She met Denise's surprised gaze. "I have my reasons for being here with the tour group, and I'm sure Hannelore and Sangeeta and the men have their reasons as well."

"Simon's is simply to watch a tornado destroying everything," Hannelore remarked.

"Well, then, he'll get his wish and then some," Denise said sourly. She peered at Sangeeta, who had sat quietly listening throughout. "What about you?"

"I saw a tornado as a child," Sangeeta said. "I admit, it was at a distance, and I merely watched it crossing the horizon. But I saw it do damage, and it frightened a healthy respect into me. Tornadoes are not confined to the States, you see. I am from India." She suddenly grinned wickedly, her big dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Someone should tell Simon Lightwood-Wynton that England gets them as well!"

"Would that he could see one," Leslie intoned dramatically, and all four women broke into laughter. At that point there was a knock on the door, and Denise got up to answer it; it was Wayne.

"I gotta talk to you," he said insistently, and Denise sighed.

"All right, okay," she said and turned to the others. "Be back in a few."

"We'll let you in," Leslie promised and watched Denise walk out_. I hope she doesn't wind up telling the entire tour group that he's never seen a tornado,_ she thought with a twinge of disquiet. _That'd be all it would take to touch off chaos that'd probably rival that twister Blanchard's hoping we'll see!_


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- March 16, 1996

No sooner had Denise closed the door behind her than Wayne grabbed her arm with an urgent look that carried traces of desperation and more than a little irritation. "Why are you really here, Denise?" he demanded. "Are you gonna cause problems?"

Denise raised one eyebrow at him and drawled, "Like what—spilling your big bad secret, Wayne?" She snorted. "I ought to. These people think you've had extensive experience with twisters, and it sure would tie their socks in a knot if they found out you've never seen a real live tornado before."

Wayne gritted his teeth. "Denise, dammit, just because you've been through the things and I haven't…geez, do you realize what a snob you sound like? How many other professional chasers out there have failed to see a tornado? I can't possibly be the only one. And so far, no one's ever heard of a chaser getting killed."

"That doesn't mean it won't happen," Denise retorted, "and for all you know, you could achieve the dubious honor of being the first. You're asking for it, Wayne, I'm telling you right now." She paused. "How the heck do I sound like a snob?"

"Saying that just because I've never seen a tornado, I'm guaranteed to screw up this whole thing," he snapped, "while you must be the ultimate expert because you _have_ seen them. So I'm not worth leading a chase tour unless I've seen one, is that it? Until then, I'm totally ignorant, stupid, blind and overconfident? I thought we loved each other, Denise, but I don't see a lot of support coming from you—and you're the one I should be able to count on to provide that support. It'd mean a lot to me if you showed a little more faith."

Denise winced and looked away, drawing both lips in between her teeth and gnawing on them in consternation. "It's just that…I mean, you're so gung-ho and so certain of yourself," she muttered. "I wish I could get you to understand that it's just plain impossible to imagine going through one of these things. You think you know what you'd do, but when the thing's actually roaring in your direction and you know you're about to lose all your possessions and maybe your life too…well, there's no thinking rationally then. Tornadoes just plain defy the imagination. I don't know how else to explain it." She turned back to him and grabbed his arms in appeal. "Wayne, please, _please_ call this off and let's go back to Fantasy Island. I'm begging you."

"You heard that guy in the diner," he said with a heavy sigh. "Even if I wanted to do that, it's too late now. The weather's grown too severe for us to go anywhere. So, as long as we're here, I'm going through with it. I'm in this far, I might as well. Anyway, that's what my tour group's expecting. You can stay here at the hotel if you'd rather, but the rest of us are going, and that's gonna include Roarke's daughter."

"Has she specifically said she's going out on the chase?" Denise asked.

Wayne frowned. "Well, no…but why else would she have come? Listen, you want me to ask her if she's coming with us?"

"I think you should," Denise said.

He shrugged. "Okay, then let's ask." He let her go and knocked on the door; Leslie herself answered, and he smiled at her. "Hi…listen, since you're with us but not part of the tour group, we thought it would be a good idea to ask you if you're going along for the actual chase tomorrow."

Leslie blinked, looking a bit startled. Wayne and Denise watched her draw in a deep breath, glance behind her at Hannelore and Sangeeta who were watching television, and then clear her throat. "Just between me and the two of you, the reason I'm here is that I have a phobia about thunderstorms. Sudden loud noises in general bother me, but thunderstorms are the worst offenders. I'm tired of being afraid of them, and I want to defeat that fear once and for all."

"Sounds like bombing the whole skyscraper to destroy a wasp nest in the lobby," observed Denise, wryly amused.

"I know," Leslie agreed with a self-deprecating shrug. "Father mentioned overkill too. But Fantasy Island rarely gets thunderstorms; and when we do, they're usually pretty tame. I think I need a big violent one to get me through this, and from all the indications we've seen so far, we're just about guaranteed some big violent ones."

"No doubt of that," Denise said. "Well, okay…I think you're being a masochist, but it's your call." She glanced at Wayne, then added, "Just be sure to follow Wayne's instructions tomorrow, no matter what happens." Wayne stared at her in happy surprise.

"You got it," Leslie said. "Denise, are you staying with us tonight, or where?"

"I'll bunk in with Wayne," Denise told her, "even if that means displacing the teacher from Spain and forcing that arrogant British milord to share his private quarters."

"I think Joachim'd rather crowd in with Enzo and Jiro than put up with Lightwood-Wynton," Wayne said, making Denise and Leslie snicker. "Anyway, thanks, Leslie, and good night." Leslie smiled, returned the sentiment and closed the door.

Wayne turned to Denise then and planted a kiss on her lips. "Thanks, hon, I really appreciate that vote of confidence. You don't know how good you just made me feel."

Denise shrugged and followed him back to his room, refraining from commenting. She wasn't altogether sure he was capable of pulling this off; but since he insisted on trying, she might as well let him have the experience and see how he handled it.

‡ ‡ ‡

The leading line in the squall system finally struck in the deepest part of the night, rudely yanking Leslie from a sound sleep. She shot a hurried glance at the bedside clock and noted that it was a little after two in the morning. Lightning flickered outside, momentarily illuminating the room and revealing to Leslie that her two roommates were both deeply asleep. She sighed enviously to herself before the answering thunder boomed, startling her and making her reach for the phone. Using frequent lightning flashes as her light source, she managed to punch out the number to the main house back on Fantasy Island and waited through the buzzes—only to get her own voice on the answering machine.

_Great,_ she thought, _just what I need._ Then she had an inspiration and swung out of bed, pulling on her robe and stepping into her favorite slippers. Surely the desk clerk would appreciate a little company; the graveyard shift had to be pretty lonely. She found her room key and slipped out into the dark interior hallway, heading toward the elevator. She saw the button's dull orange glow and pushed it, just as a door opened some yards down the hall behind her and spilled lamplight on the floor. She turned around to look, and found herself eyeing Simon Lightwood-Wynton.

The light from his room revealed her identity to him and he smirked. "Well, well," he said. "All dressed up and nowhere to go. Are you frightened of the storm?"

She smiled at him in the friendliest possible fashion. "Just restless," she said. "I see you're having trouble sleeping too."

"I meant to get some more ice," he said, displaying an ice bucket at her.

"Ah." At that moment the elevator car arrived and dinged softly behind her. Seeing a perfect zinger, she offered affably, "Well, then, don't let anyone sneak up behind you in the dark." So saying, she stepped into the elevator, watching his mouth fall open as the suggestion—and the memory it triggered—registered fully, and had the satisfaction of getting the last word as the elevator doors slid closed. Leslie grinned broadly in self-congratulation.

"And what, pray tell, was that all about, Leslie Susan?" inquired an amused voice.

She gasped loudly and whirled around to see Roarke standing in one of the back corners of the elevator car, his dark eyes twinkling. "Father, how on earth did you know? I tried to call you at home and I only got the machine. Don't tell me, you were on your way here when I dialed home…"

Roarke laughed softly. "Don't change the subject," he said, still in a teasing mood. "I see you were sparring with Mr. Lightwood-Wynton once again, and you looked quite pleased with yourself for getting in the last word."

"I was," Leslie admitted readily. "There were too many occasions when it went to him, so it felt really good this time."

Roarke nodded, still smiling. "I'll ask you to explain more fully later. At the moment, I wanted merely to know how you're doing in your battle with your phobia."

"So far, it's weather one, me zero," she confessed with a rueful return smile. "The storm woke me up, and I thought the night clerk might enjoy a little company."

"Indeed!" chuckled Roarke. "Don't let yourself become discouraged, Leslie. Phobias cannot be conquered overnight; it takes time and patience, and above all, perseverance. Just do the best you can—and meantime, as always, be careful."

"That's a given," Leslie assured him. The elevator eased to a stop on the ground floor. "I'll get through this one way or the other. Maybe when I finally do conquer it, storms won't wake me up at night anymore."

Roarke nodded again. "Perhaps not," he said. He reached for her while the doors slid open and caught her arm, concern gleaming from his dark eyes. "But you are merely trying to combat your fear of thunderstorms, and facing a tornado is not necessary to achieve that. Don't you think you should return with me?"

She regarded him, tempted despite herself, then sighed gently and hugged him. "Well, that sure would make me one heck of an overgrown chicken, wouldn't it?"

"Very well," Roarke acceded, laughing in spite of himself. "You show your stubborn side at the worst possible moments, but I must admit, I admire your determination. All right, then, I wish you luck." He stepped back, and she slipped through the closing doors, pausing a few steps beyond. _Let's see if I'm right,_ she thought whimsically and pushed the button. The doors promptly parted, revealing an empty car. _Yep, that's what I thought. _ Leslie grinned and headed for the front desk to make friends with the night clerk.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- March 17, 1996

Sunday morning dawned very rainy and dim; the clouds were so heavy and dark that the street lights remained on, and most lightning flashes could easily be seen. At the moment the only ones visible were over the mountaintops, as if there were a pause between storm fronts in the system. The group, now numbering nine altogether, ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant, most chatting with rising excitement about the events to come. Only Leslie and Denise, who were sitting at the same table, ate quietly, both watching the weather and listening to the anticipatory conversations of the chasers.

Finally Denise asked Leslie point-blank, "Did you know that Wayne's never seen a tornado?"

Leslie nodded, clearly surprising Denise. "Yup. Father knew, and he revealed it to me, in a sort of roundabout way. But I understand his group has no idea." She peered curiously at Denise. "Do you mean you're planning to tell them?"

Denise shrugged and let her guilty gaze stray out the window again. "I was seriously considering it. I might still do it, if I can't talk these crazy people out of this incredible folly. I suppose I shouldn't even bother trying, because I saw Wayne's chase van in the parking lot this morning when I got up. Mr. Roarke sure covers all the bases." She blew out a breath and idly poked holes in her pancake with her fork, then looked up at Leslie again. "There really _is_ gonna be a tornado, isn't there?"

"That's Wayne's fantasy," Leslie said, answering without really answering, in just the manner Roarke did. She hadn't spent all these years being his ward, daughter and assistant without learning a few of her father's tricks.

Denise propped her chin on her hand and stared morosely at the wall over Leslie's shoulder. "Yeah, more's the pity."

At that moment Wayne got out of his chair and clapped his hands once, drawing everyone's attention. "Okay, people, here's the plan. The hotel kitchen has very kindly agreed to provide us with a picnic lunch to take along, so we don't get hungry out in the field. We'll eat around noontime or so, and in the meantime we're all going to keep an eye on the clouds. We all know what to look for, I presume. Let's recap." He sounded to Leslie like a schoolteacher conducting a class. "The first sign of a tornado is—?"

"A wall cloud," said Hannelore Niemeyer solemnly. "It will probably be rotating."

"Right," said Wayne with approval. "There'll be a rain-free area to one side and probably rain on the other, and there's likely to be hail…" He continued in enthusiastic lecture mode while Denise sat and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, at which she stared with a profoundly bored look about her. Leslie snickered softly.

"Does he lecture like that a lot?" she asked, just above a whisper.

"All the time," Denise muttered. "He actually does have a teaching degree, but he claims teaching bores him out of his skull. He's so certain he knows what he's doing, I'm afraid that he'll get really cocky, and the skull in question will be all that's left of him."

"Well," Leslie mused, eyeing the chasers, "let's see what they're all saying at the end of the day." She smiled at Denise and ate the last couple bites of her omelet.

Wayne wound up his recap then and addressed everyone as a whole. "Okay, then, let's get our stuff and check out, since after we finish chasing for the day, we'll be on our way back to Fantasy Island." He grinned. "And by then, we'll all have seen a tornado, if Mr. Roarke's word can be trusted!"

The group headed upstairs and retrieved their luggage, then checked out. By the time the process was complete, the next wave of storms had moved in and it was pouring rain outside, so everyone paused in the lobby to don raincoats. They then followed Wayne out to his chase van in the parking lot. There was very little in the way of actual equipment inside: there was a small secondhand radar scope mounted on the dashboard and connected with a tiny rotating dish on the roof, and a twenty-year-old CB radio was mounted to the van's interior ceiling just to the left of the rearview mirror. A handheld video camera lay in the driver's seat. Leslie, who had expected a goodly amount of sophisticated weather-forecasting and analysis paraphernalia, gave Wayne a dubious look before she noticed that Denise had seen it.

"This is all he can afford," Denise murmured for Leslie's ears only. "He swears it's enough for him."

"I sure hope so," Leslie mumbled before climbing inside the van and choosing a seat. Wayne had a few words with his tour group before the rest got in and settled down one by one; Denise took the front passenger seat and picked up the camera, and Wayne hopped into the driver's side and started the engine. The tour members, with the exception of Simon Lightwood-Wynton who looked profoundly bored, set up a teasing cheer as they pulled out of the hotel parking lot and gained the road out of town. Wayne grinned at them in the mirror and gave them all a thumbs-up.

Everyone watched the passing countryside with interest as they rolled along. A short distance outside town, they passed the last of a few scattered small farmhouses and found themselves alone in the open fields. Isolated trees stood bleak sentinel against the storms; now and then some cattle could be seen huddling under some of the taller ones. Wayne pointed this out. "That's an excellent way to get hit by lightning," he told the group. "If you ever get caught outside in a thunderstorm, whatever you do, don't stand under a lone tree. Lightning always goes for the shortest path to the ground, and it'll pick the tallest thing around. If you're beside that tallest thing, you'll get fried."

"That would make an interesting sight," observed Simon. It was hard to tell whether he sounded sarcastic or serious, and Leslie chose to pretend he hadn't spoken. She had begun to wonder if even a tornado could subdue the man's cocky arrogance.

Through the morning they paused twice to watch likely-looking storms, but neither tempest produced a twister and they moved on, traveling ever farther into the interior and away from Cedar Heights. Shortly before noon, there was enough of a break between storm fronts to let some watery sunshine through, and Wayne stopped the van near an orange grove and suggested they have their picnic lunch there. This was greeted with enthusiasm and they spread out a waterproof tarp near the van, setting out food and gathering around to enjoy sandwiches, potato salad, pickles, baked beans and lemonade, with oatmeal-raisin cookies for dessert.

During the meal, Joachim Albarran chose for some reason to sit beside Leslie. She welcomed the chance to talk with someone, since Denise had grown increasingly moody as the day progressed. "So how did you happen to join a tornado-chase tour?" she asked the studious-looking teacher from Spain.

Joachim smiled. "A misguided case of curiosity," he confessed with self-deprecating humor. "It began last summer when there was a rogue tornado near my hometown. It frightened the wits out of everyone, and I found myself considering the widespread ignorance of these storms in my country. I felt someone should try to lessen that ignorance, so I elected myself, and began to learn all I could. I decided that I would set aside a month of each school year to study weather in the science classes that I teach, and to spend a full two weeks of that month focusing on tornadoes. Then I learned of _Señor_ Blanchard's chase tours and signed up for one of them, thinking that practical experience could lend some authenticity to what I was trying to teach my students."

"That makes sense," Leslie agreed, nodding. "What does your family think of this?"

"They don't know about it," said Joachim. "I am divorced with two children who live primarily with their mother. At any rate, I found this quite intriguing, and more than a little surprising, because March is somewhat early in the season for tornado-chasing. Perhaps _Señor_ Blanchard meant to come to Fantasy Island all along."

"That could be," Leslie agreed neutrally. She met his gaze and smiled. "You might consider it a bonus trip."

Joachim laughed loudly enough to turn heads and evoke smiles on most faces. "I didn't think of it quite that way. One thing of which I am very certain is that this has been a true adventure, and worth what I paid for the privilege of participating in it."

Leslie grinned. "Glad to hear it. I just hope it all turns out the way you want it—you and Mr. Blanchard, and the rest of the people on this chase tour."

They were nearly finished when the sun disappeared and thunder began to mutter in the distance once more. The women packed up the picnic items while the men folded the tarp and put it away, and the entire group piled back into the van and got onto the road. This time Simon, who'd been in the back all morning, chose a seat just behind Wayne and Denise, and asked to look at the video camera. Denise handed it over without comment, settling back in her seat with a sullen look about her. Wayne drove at sixty miles per hour till the rain started again, then slowed to half that, reaching up and turning on the CB.

"Good Lord, man," Simon blurted out, half laughing. "Do you think anyone has one of those things anymore? How truly 70s!"

"It's a very handy tool," Wayne said, "and you'd be surprised how many people still have them. It may not be the trendy fad it used to be, but CB radios are useful, especially to amateur tornado spotters and less well-heeled chasers such as me." He twisted the channel knob in a rapid series of staccato clicks till he found the one he wanted, then adjusted the volume and resettled himself in the driver's seat. "There ought to be some weather watchers out there today, so if they have anything to say, we'll hear it."

"Turn on the headlights, Wayne," Denise said. "It's getting dark."

Leslie and the others in the back overheard and peered out the windows; the clouds had thickened and blackened to the point that the few street lights this far from civilization had come on. At wide intervals they passed under a pool of blue-white or pinkish-orange light; otherwise, the only light came either from the dashboard or the increasingly frequent bursts of lightning as the storm intensified. Once or twice they passed a lonely farmhouse set way back from the road; but for those, the chase group might as well have been alone in the world. Leslie's stomach began to twitter with nerves.

Wayne made a last-second decision and turned off the main road onto a paved, but very rutted, secondary lane with a deep drainage ditch running alongside it at their right. "What the hell—" Simon began.

"Shut up," Denise flared, twisting in her seat to expend some of her ugly mood on him. "If you plan on leading the tour, then you can make the decisions, but if not, then keep your lip buttoned." She turned away without waiting for his response and slouched low in her seat, glowering at the sodden landscape through the windshield.

They broke out rather suddenly from a curtain of heavy rain into a quiet area; Leslie, in the back beside Joachim, looked behind them and realized they'd emerged from the latest in the procession of squall lines. The cloud just behind them looked like a shelf with a rolled edge. This new area was a little lighter, so that it was easier to see what was overhead.

Wayne pulled over and stopped the van, bringing her attention back around to the front. "Okay, folks, let's take stock," he said, and everyone got out, stretching their muscles as they stepped onto the wet pavement. Thunder rumbled from somewhere not too far away, and a steady, humid wind bent the long grass of the open countryside.

"This is it!" shouted Wayne, and they all flocked around to the front of the van to see what he was talking about. They were facing almost due west; to the southwest was the unmistakable tower of a supercell thunderstorm, soaring so high into the heavens that their necks cricked from looking up. Trailing behind the storm at its greatest height was a bright white expanse of cloud that Wayne informed them was called an anvil, due to its shape as seen from a distance. Looking northwest, they could see a heavy, smoky curtain of rain; this vanished about halfway back, leaving a dry area. At the meeting point between these two sections of the cloud base was a low-hanging bulge that looked, to Leslie, roughly like the bottom edge of a hollow cylinder. A long thin tail preceded it, vanishing behind the rain curtain. Beside Leslie, Joachim Albarran murmured an awed curse in Spanish.

"It's a wall cloud," he said, catching her puzzled, anxious look. "This may be the payoff _Señor_ Blanchard has been waiting for."

Leslie's stomach went light, as if someone had filled it with helium. "Oh…"

Wayne had been dictating into a small hand-held portable tape recorder, describing the supercell storm in meticulous detail. Now he turned around and said distractedly, "I need the camera going—gotta catch this in case a funnel forms."

"I'll do it," Simon offered, surprising the others, and lifted the video camera, turning it on and training it on the storm. Just as he did so, a sudden strong rush of cold air hit them, nearly knocking them off their feet with its unexpected intensity. It seemed to be some kind of cosmic signal; in the middle of the rain curtain, a huge bolt of lightning cracked out of the cloud and set off an explosion of thunder that they felt in the ground beneath their feet. In that moment Leslie fully understood her father's extreme aversion to her being with this group, and stood there seriously questioning her own sanity.

"That's the gust front!" shouted Wayne, his excitement escalating madly now. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Watch for the clear slot, people!"

"That wall cloud is rotating," yelled Enzo DiSandro enthusiastically. "Do you see it?"

"There's the clear slot," Hannelore Niemeyer screamed.

Confused, Leslie peered around at the group, and once again Joachim took pity on her. Pointing to the left of the slowly revolving wall cloud, he indicated an area of clear sky on the horizon. "That's called the clear slot," he explained, speaking close to her ear so that she could hear him over the wind. "It's another sign." Another enormous lightning bolt sparked from the storm and drowned out anything else he might have said in the resulting thunder. Leslie, unable to stand any more, slammed her hands over her ears and cursed her own idiocy for insisting on being part of this. How on earth had she ever thought this would cure her storm phobia?

The thunder died away and Leslie dared look up; something caught her attention and she noticed a streak of white amidst the dark-gray rain curtain. It took her a moment to realize it was hail. Not only that, the whole storm was moving, slowly but surely, toward the north, crossing the landscape from left to right as seen from their vantage point. _Keep going that way,_ she implored silently. _We'll just stay right here and spectate._

Then both Joachim and Sangeeta, standing nearby, grabbed her arms and pointed. She followed their gazes and found herself staring helplessly at what was all too obviously a tornado in the making. The wall cloud had extended a short, thick feeler; as they stood there watching it, with Simon providing technicolor commentary in his own inimitable way, it stretched toward the ground, already stirring up a small dust cloud. A moment later it had connected with the earth and was now an official, full-blown tornado.

"_TOUCHDOWN!"_ Wayne shouted exuberantly into his tape recorder. "We have a tornado, folks! Appears to be shaped roughly like the trunk of an elephant with a slight backward-S curve in it…" His dictating was lost in the gradually-increasing roar of the storm as it plowed ponderously along the land, throwing up a large, dirty dust cloud at its base. The wind whistled around them, occasionally buffeting them; now and then a bolt of lightning streaked out of the clouds and touched off thunder, whose noise was now partially dulled by the steady racket from the tornado. It was a wall of sound, and Leslie was sure she would be deaf for a week after this.

The tornado had nearly reached the point where the road vanished into the distance when it seemed to pause, as if wondering where it wanted to go next. Simon stood training the camera on it, making remarks that couldn't be heard over the storm; Wayne was still narrating into the tape recorder. The others were pointing out one feature or another to each other, commenting enthusiastically on what they were seeing; only Denise and Joachim wore somber expressions, the latter studying the storm closely, the former glaring at it as though daring it to come closer. Leslie hovered near the open door of the van, warily watching the storm, ready to duck under shelter at any moment.

Wayne turned around and started hollering at his tour group; Leslie couldn't hear him from where she stood, but it looked as if he'd gone back into lecture mode again. She just didn't see how anyone could be so calm in the face of what they were witnessing; she herself wanted nothing more than to run for the hills. When the thought blossomed in her mind, she reached for Joachim's sleeve and plucked at it. "Shouldn't we get out of here?" she shouted at him.

Joachim frowned. "It's bad to try to outrun a tornado in a vehicle," he told her, and might have said more, except for a shrill scream from Denise that easily pierced the bass roar of the tornado.

"_It's heading straight at us!"_ she screeched, pointing.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- March 17, 1996

All eyes went to the twister. It didn't seem to be moving at all, but Leslie thought it looked bigger than it had a moment or two before. She swiftly scanned the rain curtain at their right and realized that it had been gradually approaching their position, though the hail was fortunately too far north of them now to be a problem. She gave Joachim a look, and he squinted at the tornado, then nodded, looking vaguely alarmed.

"She's right," he yelled at Leslie. "We must find some kind of shelter."

"There isn't any!" Leslie shrieked at him, on the edge of panic. "Where are we supposed to go if we don't take the van and get out of here?"

"The ditch," Joachim said and turned to the others, repeating this at the top of his lungs and pointing at the drainage ditch near which they stood. Wayne looked stunned; Denise seemed just furious. The others were clearly quite scared, enough to take Joachim's advice and leap into the ditch without a second thought—except for Simon, who had moved into the middle of the road and was still happily videotaping the tornado. It seemed to have grown in size even as they were speaking, and Leslie finally understood that this meant the thing had changed direction and decided to aim directly for them.

Joachim pulled at her arm and she jumped into the drainage ditch after him. There was already a good six inches of standing water in the bottom, and everyone was soaked to the knees and spattered with mud. Denise joined them there, still looking as though she would have liked to reach out and try to choke the funnel cloud to death. Wayne, spying Simon in the road, went after him and grabbed his arm, trying to get him to hit the ditch with the others. Simon came along till he got a look inside, then balked. Wayne began yelling at him, but no one could hear due to the tornado.

"Is he insane?" Denise screamed into Leslie's ear.

"Probably," Leslie screamed back. Undoubtedly Simon was afraid he was going to ruin his clothes! She shielded her eyes from the first flying dust and actually caught Simon's gaze, upon which she took the opportunity to mouth the word _Stupid!_ at him as clearly as she possibly could. She knew he got it because he glared at her before finally lowering himself into the ditch. Satisfied, she risked one last peek over the top and instantly ducked back down. The tornado couldn't have been more than five hundred yards down the road from them now. It wasn't overly wide, perhaps a thousand yards at the base, but it stretched so far into the sky from their viewpoint that it looked much bigger. The dust was thick in the air now, and from time to time one piece of debris or another sailed over their heads. Denise tapped Leslie's shoulder and demonstrated how to crouch down, tuck her head under and fold her hands across the back of her skull for as much protection as possible.

Once in this position, she turned her head just enough to ascertain that Joachim had followed their example and was snugged in next to her as close as possible. In fact, everyone had huddled together, more for reassurance than anything else; only Simon, still bent on capturing everything on film, had half risen and was aiming the camera lens toward the upper half of the long snaky cloud. There was no hope for him, Leslie decided, just before they heard a loud metallic bang and the faint tinkling crash of shattered glass. She hunkered down and waited, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut and stomach threatening to eject everything inside it.

Apparent ages passed before the storm's roaring diminished, and slowly the chase group poked their heads up over the edge of the ditch. The tornado, still going strong, was now receding toward the east. It began to rain as they pulled themselves to their feet; it hardly mattered; despite their raincoats, they were all soaked through from head to toe and covered with mud.

No one spoke as they struggled out of the ditch, slipping in the abundant mud and occasionally grunting with effort. They were concentrating so hard on this that it wasn't till they'd helped one another regain their footing on the rutted pavement that they realized the chase van had disappeared. "What the…" Wayne began, looking disoriented.

"Over there, chap," Simon said casually and pointed some distance down the road, in the direction they'd come from. The chase van lay on its side about a quarter of a mile down the lane, all its windows shattered. The radar dish that had been mounted atop it was gone altogether; the headlights had been broken as well and the bumper partially crumpled.

"How are we to get back to town?" asked Jiro Tamori, voicing everyone's thought.

"Walk, it seems," Simon said and grinned. "Shall we get started?"

"I have a better idea," Enzo DiSandro put in. "Wayne, perhaps it will still run. If we all work together to put the van upright once more, you can see if the engine is working."

"Thanks, Enzo," Wayne said gratefully. "Glad someone's thinking clearly around here. Let's try it…with nine of us, we might have a chance."

It was a motley-looking crew indeed who trudged down the muddy road in the heavy rain and paused beside the damaged van. After a few moments' rest and some assessment, everyone lined up alongside the roof of the van and began to push with their combined weight—even Simon, although he contributed only one hand, since the other still clutched the camcorder. After several long minutes of desperate effort, rocking the vehicle a bit to get a little leverage and pushing harder on each upswing, they at last got enough momentum to make the vehicle lift about halfway up. At the apex of its swing, they rammed themselves up against it and pushed, sustaining the upward movement; and the van continued on, landing on its driver's-side tires with a heavy thud and the assorted small crashes of loose objects inside. The group cheered and grinned at one another with relieved triumph.

"Well, that's half the battle," Wayne said. "Now let's see if it'll take us anywhere."

By some small miracle, the engine did indeed start; Wayne experimentally eased the van a few feet along, with the group pacing alongside. "Seems okay," he said finally. "If we take it slow and don't push this poor old beast, it might get us back to Cedar Heights."

"How far is that?" asked Sangeeta Madichetty.

"About thirty miles," Wayne said.

"A little less than fifty kilometers," Leslie added. Years before, Roarke had seen the global push toward metrics and had made sure all students on the island learned measurements in metric as well as American terms; so Leslie had learned to make quick basic conversions in school after arriving on Fantasy Island.

"Ah," came a murmured chorus from the tour members. Jiro Tamori gave the van a doubtful look and said in addition, "It seems rather far away for your van to go, Wayne. I think the tornado did some serious damage."

Wayne sighed. "At least it still runs. She's all we've got, folks, so unless you prefer to keep Lightwood-Wynton company on his walk, you might as well hop on in." Simon shot Wayne an annoyed look, but they all noticed that he clambered in along with the rest.

Since all the windows had been blown out, the cross breeze that flowed through the interior soon had them shivering in the much-cooler air post-tornado. By this time the twister, still visible toward the east, had reached its final stage of life and looked like a long thin line drifting through the sky. "It's roping out," Wayne explained, pointing at it. "It can still do plenty of damage even then, so the danger isn't over yet; but it'll probably dissipate in the next ten minutes or less."

"Shall I film it, then?" Simon inquired, already poking half his torso out the nearest glassless window and pointing the camera at the distant twister without waiting for an answer. No one bothered providing one; they took no interest in Simon's peculiar affinity for recording the events they'd just survived and settled down in an exhausted silence, each one hugging him- or herself in a feeble attempt to keep warm on the trip back to Cedar Heights. Only Simon's voice could be heard now, still providing commentary, until a bit less than ten minutes into the trip when the tornado finally dissolved into nothingness and he was forced to stop running the camcorder and retreat inside the van.

Much later, when they were a bit more than five miles northwest of town, they came across a pile of scattered wreckage that plainly had once been a house. Wayne slowed the van to a crawl and everyone stared at the pitiful sight. A lone human figure meandered along the edge of the junkpile, apparently in a daze; the person stopped when the van came along and stared at it.

"Stop," Denise snapped, startling them all. "We need to see if we can help."

Wayne obeyed and everyone piled out, hesitantly approaching the figure. Then Leslie gasped. "Holly?" she cried.

Sure enough, it was Holly Oberlein, whose face crumpled the moment Leslie spoke. She broke down into an unnerving, keening wail that made Simon curse out loud and the others wince and turn away. Leslie ran to her former classmate and hugged her hard. "I'm so glad you're okay," she said softly. "What happened?"

"I was in the cellar…" Holly began, her voice a thin, childlike bleat punctuated by soft cries of despair. "My parents were there…it picked them up…they're gone…"

Gently Leslie shushed her. "Come on, Holly, we're going back to town, and you're coming with us. We'll get word to Cedar Heights and they can send out a search party." Sobbing uncontrollably, Holly let Leslie lead her back to the van; after that no one said a word. The atmosphere was funereal all the way back to town.

Wayne and Denise, up front, were the first ones to see the figure in white, standing on the sidewalk where they had first arrived the previous day. Wayne stopped the vehicle, and Roarke approached it, taking in the bedraggled occupants. He focused on Holly Oberlein, sitting beside Leslie, still grieving audibly.

"Leslie?" he questioned.

She mustered up a wan smile for him and explained who Holly was. "Her house was destroyed in the storm and her parents are missing, so we need to get a search party out." She bit her lip. "As far as we could see, the Oberlein place was the only one the tornado hit. Could we do something for her, Father?"

Roarke smiled with understanding. "We'll notify the local police and fire department and they can handle the organization of a search party," he said. "Miss Oberlein?"

Surprised, Holly focused on him through her tears. "Mr. Roarke?"

"If you wish, we will remain here with you until you've had word about your mother and father," he suggested. She nodded and began to cry, this time in a more normal way, and Leslie reached over and wrapped an arm around her, squeezing.

The search for Holly's parents ended happily; they had landed in a field adjacent to their property and were both seriously injured but alive. Holly insisted on remaining with them; and Roarke, acceding to her adamant wishes and profuse thanks, shepherded Leslie and the tornado chasers to the hydrofoil launch back to Fantasy Island. He took in their exhaustion and misery, and merely made sure they were physically unhurt before taking a chair beside Leslie and examining her critically.

"You seem to have survived the experience," he remarked dryly.

Without moving, she lifted her gaze to him and drew in a long breath, then let it out in one heavy gust. "The next time I get one of these bright ideas of mine," she said wearily, "just tie me to a chair until I see the error of my ways and the light of your wisdom, okay?"

A bright sparkle instantly appeared in Roarke's dark eyes and he nodded with sham solemnity. "You have my word on that."

Leslie gave him a grouchy look. "Oh, quit holding back," she muttered. "I know you're dying to laugh, so go ahead." Obligingly Roarke released his quiet chuckles, patting her shoulder while she slouched grumpily in her seat.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- March 18, 1996

They shook hands with each of Wayne Blanchard's tour members and wished them a good trip home, then faced Wayne and Denise, who were holding hands. "We had a very long talk last night," Denise said with a smile.

"Really?" said Roarke. "And what conclusion did you reach?"

"Well, for one thing, this fantasy finally made me realize that tornado-chasing isn't for amateurs like me," Wayne confessed. "I thought I knew it all till this weekend. But when we saw that monster bearing down on us, my mind went totally blank. Joachim Albarran knew what to do and kept a cool head, and he probably saved our lives."

Denise's smile became a grin. "Well, if you hadn't had the presence of mind to force that insane Brit to get in the ditch with the rest of us, we might've lost the guy. So give yourself some credit, hon. Besides, you got some terrific tornado footage and did some really insightful observation, so I figure the tornado eggheads in Norman should be able to make a little use of it. And if not, then heck…the local TV stations'll eat it up." They all laughed. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke and Leslie, and goodbye."

"Goodbye, Ms. Young," Roarke replied. They also bid Wayne farewell, shook hands all around, and waved the couple onto the plane.

"Speaking of Mr. Lightwood-Wynton," Roarke said then, regarding his daughter, "I'd like to hear your explanation of that remark you made to him in the elevator."

"Oh," said Leslie and sighed. "I suppose you might as well know. You remember that the Claude Duncan place on Grady and Maureen's property had been deserted for a while by then, and that he had a special interest in it. It turns out that Duncan was friends with the silent-movie director Niles Cameron, who happened to be Simon's great-grandfather. Simon ultimately broke into the chateau looking for a print of Cameron's first film with Duncan and Becky Lee—the only print known to exist—claiming it belonged to his family. He'd sneaked out there without my knowing it. My friends and I went over there to get him out, and caught him in one of the rooms, searching through boxes by flashlight. I thought it was only fair to scare purgatory out of him the way he had me, so I said 'Surprise!' at him, right out loud. He must have jumped three feet." She grinned at the memory. "So that's why I told him not to let anybody sneak up on him in the dark."

"No wonder you never told me," Roarke said, rolling his eyes. "Obviously it ended well, but you should have come clean after Simon and his mother left here."

Leslie shrugged. "What's done is done, Father…can't we leave it at that?"

Roarke laughed and relented. "All right. By the way…" Another twinkle glinted from his eye. "There's a special advance screening this afternoon for a new film that will be out in a few months, and I had thought to attend. Would you like to accompany me?"

"What's the movie?" Leslie asked curiously.

"It's called _Twister_, and tells a story about tornado chasers," Roarke said.

Leslie cleared her throat loudly and shook her head. "Thanks, Father, but I think I'll pass on that one," she said, watching with relief as a jeep approached to pick them up.

"Very well," Roarke said with an innocent shrug, but when she climbed into the jeep ahead of him, he simply couldn't control a mischievous grin.


End file.
